Another Bowl

By A. Garrett Jacobs

The traveler eyed the broth-stained dish, spoon falling from their hands, amber glow returning to their skin. “I gotta know. What’s your secret?”

One answer: herbs, roots, plucked each lunar cycle, infused with charms, boiled with meats and vegetables and spices, held hot. Enchantments summoning the malnourished. Spells bending roads to guide them. And me, to sell the affair.

I smiled. “Family recipe.” That was true too.

They smirked and rose, dropping coins. “Thanks. It was delicious.”

“Of course,” I said. “Drop by anytime.” Which they would, when fatigue led them back, and I’d wave them in and pour another bowl.